


red brake lights

by toro (sapoeysap)



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Gen, Healing, Heartbreak, Road Trips, Sad and Happy, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:00:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22175179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapoeysap/pseuds/toro
Summary: fresh heartbreak's can't be healed on ice rinks.friendships can be formed though.
Relationships: Valtteri Bottas/Daniil Kvyat
Comments: 12
Kudos: 32





	red brake lights

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [this](https://tororuhroh.tumblr.com/private/190143315269/tumblr_CGMxC44dqTgw9Wi7m) photo, the group chat encouraging me to write heartbreak val and vodka espresso’s.
> 
> this is a work of fiction. please do not presume I believe anything here to be real. And please do not share this work outside of ao3.

**fancy some ice hockey**

Val's not sure if it’s the fact it's an unknown number or the implication that someone wants to play ice hockey with him, that gets his heart racing. the racing of his heart might have to do with nerves though. Questioning how someone got his number, he’s gonna have to call his manager, maybe his press officer…

**sorry. it's daniil**

okay so not a stray number.

**Kvyat**

which pulls Valtteri's face into a frown, he shockingly doesn't interact with that many Russians. Daniil's the only person he knows that goes by that spelling.

Val find's he's a little bit shit with texting, and a part of him is curious on if it actually is Daniil Kvyat texting him. Since they speak roughly. Never. (this might be an exaggeration. they speak occasionally in the paddock, but it's not like they are best friends)

‘moi moi’

'hello?' Daniil sounds confused, 'Oh Valtteri. Hello'

'So, it is you. Are you not out in Brazil, Ice Hockey with me better than spending time with your kid?’

Valtteri tries not to let any bitterness come through in his voice. Daniil's pause and intake of breath is thick through the crackly phone line. Laden with meaning.

'Sorry’ Val knows the word doesn’t cover the feelings, ‘Hockey sounds good. are you in Russia?'

'Yes, but forgot I have no friends apart from family here, Finland’s closest.'

Val can sense the desperation in the Russian’s voice, and hell, he gets it.

They agree a place halfway in-between, and Val finds himself packing the Mercedes G Wagon for a road trip to Russia since halfway in-between is still, Russia, the country so vast. For a game of ice hockey. With his apparently recently heartbroken sort of colleague. 

Well at least he's bonding with someone. He's a man of isolation, but it's all gotten a bit too much, navigating the holiday season alone. There's only so many rallies he can attend before even the rally season packs up for holidays.

Yeah, he's a driver for a living, but there's something nice about just being you and the thrum of a car through countries to country. Especially a nice car, not a bad perk to a career. It’s a day's drive anyways. Daniil had pulled some homeboy hero sway and booked an entire ice rink to just the two of them apparently, or so the man had said in a text. Valtteri will drive one leg, crash in a hotel in St Petersburg, before driving down the agreed ice rink just before Moscow.

Val lies on the lumpy bed, and stares at the ceiling. The emotions are eating him up, he’s not sure what’s worse. His breakup, in which all he lost was a marriage and a woman he loved, so he could chase a championship that is only just out of reach. Or Daniil, losing the woman he loves to race for a championship that he will never win. And not just losing his love, but a child. He texts Lewis, which he’s learning he can do now, that the other man is actually a friend, especially in the wake of the divorce. He doesn’t explain the whole situation, but Lewis has this reassuring vibe. The sense that he cares for Val, even if Valtteri is giving Lewis such little information. Lewis ends the text thread with

**take care of yourself alright val**

So Valtteri suck’s his emotions up and falls asleep on the lumpy bed and dreams of shapeless faces.

The rest of the drive is easy, he pulls up in what Valtteri imagines every Russian parking lot outside of a big city looks like. The Ice Rink looming like a monolith of ugly architecture. He lean’s against the G Wagon sort of awkwardly, like a cowboy stand-off in the ice rink car park.

Val leans in for a bro hug. Daniil pulls him tight like he’s the first-person Daniil’s hugged in a while. They must make a funny image, two formula one drivers all blonde hair and tired eyes hugging for just shy of too long in the concrete car park.

They trundle in, Val watches as Daniil barks sharp words in fast paced Russian at the receptionist. Then Daniil’s nodding his head in assent and Val can do nothing but follow the Russian through the building. Ice Rink changing rooms are apparently the same no matter where you go. They sit on slated wooden benches and change in silence. Daniil seems to be just staring into space by the time Val’s done changing. They wander out rink side on practiced feet, step by step in the clunky skates.

***

Valtteri forgets how much he loves the feel of the ice under his feet, gliding around roughly, the clanking of sticks against the compacted frozen water. He’s barely made a loop around the rink before he’s making a pact to play more. The same pact he mentally makes every time he hits an ice rink, and inevitably fails on because life gets in the way.

They say don’t take your feelings into a game, but this is just friends, or whatever he and Daniil are. Acquaintances on the ice rink. They for sure are both getting some kind of emotion out, just with practice shots and barked words in second languages.

It’s obvious ice hockey was never Daniil’s chosen sport beside racing, but the Russian has his own gear which looks well loved, tell tell signs of duct tape repairs on his stick. A jersey that most likely said Kvyat and 26, but the lettering is peeling from washes. Like it’s the only hockey jersey he owns.

Val feels slightly guilty, his gear is well loved for sure, but his jersey is clean because he owns multiples. His stick has no duct tape scars, just a small splinter occasionally if your eye were to follow the handle.

They hit pucks for hours, back and forth. Exchanging little words. Val’s reminded why he was never picked for goalie, and that Daniil has a penchant for being very sweary. Half the time in languages that aren’t Russian, which Val finds mildly amusing. Daniil gives him a hard whack on the shoulder at some point, more in jest, but Val slips, shocked by the strength of the push. Daniil helps him up with a cold hand and a toothy smile.

They pause for a late lunch, in the deserted café of the rink, one of the workers has obviously left them out a platter of sandwiches and the like. And an ominous silver flask. Daniil seems overjoyed when he sees it, pours the fluid into his mug. For half a second Val thinks he’s watching a walking stereotype, Daniil gulping down vodka out of whatever receptacle he can find.

‘I might have chosen this rink because they make the best hot chocolate. Want some?’

Sometimes Val forgets that Daniil is really only 25, had no time to be a wide-eyed kid in this big racing world, just like the rest of them robbed of normality but chasing a dream.

It’s damn good hot chocolate too.

They spend post lunch doing meandering circles, trick shots and less aggression, weighed down by food and waning energies. They pack up with gentle chatter, Daniil saying they should get going before it gets too late. Not to push the staff's patience for their kind generosity of letting them have the rink to themselves. The catch is the both of them have to pose for a picture, still sweaty and in their gear with the owners whose smiles are more enthusiastic than either Valtteri or Daniil can muster. Val hopes it takes a hot minute before those photos hit the online sphere. Though he knows they will inevitably make their way onto the reception walls at most. The both of them get changed with the chatter again, complimenting shots and improvement points.

They wander out and find that the world has gotten dark while they’ve been toiling away, fresh snow has fallen. It takes Val a minute to adjust to the unfamiliar world. He tail’s Daniil’s car to the hotel the Russian has booked, following red break lights through snowy banks. The hotel looks simple, in the middle of an average looking town. Valtteri wonders if Russia saved all its beauty for the big cities. Finland takes his breath away at every turn, even though he grew up there. Russia has yet to inspire him, but maybe he’s looking in the wrong places. Maybe Daniil’s home city is different, more pretty on account of it being a city. He sorts the bags out in the back of his car while Daniil goes on ahead to check them in, apparently his backpack is all the Russian needs. Maybe Val’s adopted too much of a Lewis lifestyle, his bag is rugged in a purposfully designed way but large, by the time he’s wrestled it out of the boot and waltzed into the lobby he finds an irate Daniil and a very stern lady behind the desk.

Daniil turns and looks at him with dull eyes.

‘There’s been a mix up.’ He say’s in harsh accent, jumped straight from Russian into English.

‘We are going to have to share a room’

Val's first thought is, what the fuck this is Russia, are men even allowed to share a room together. His second thought is surely this hotel in the middle of nowhere can't be fully booked even in spite of the season. But the receptionist is holding up a sheet of paper that indicates it is, with great glee on her face.

He hopes she doesn’t understand English, when he replies. ‘I’m the big spoon though okay’, and Daniil barks out a shocked laugh. 

They clamber the stairs to the room, because apparently the lift was broken. Val’s starting to think Daniil has brought him to a cursed hotel in the middle of Nowhere, Russia to kill him, maybe for the merc seat.

‘I was a bit of a mess when I booked this. Sorry. It’s not what you were expecting.’

Daniil sounds genuinely disheartened. Like Val is going to turn and march the way down this very long staircase and drive all the way back to Finland.

‘It’s okay’

For all the hotel’s other faults, the room is actually very nice. Not one of the bleakest Valtteri’s ever stayed in, not too flashy either. The glaring fault is the double bed in the middle.

‘You can shower first’, Val offers, because Daniil looks like he’s about to have some weird sort of breakdown. And Val hopes that some hot water will perk him up.

Valtteri spends the time listening to the Russian go about his bathroom activities, while he organises his bag and tries to work out how to call for Room Service, or if Room Service is even an option.

Daniil comes out in a baggy shirt and joggers, skin lobster red and puffy eyes.

‘You want any food in particular?’ Daniil asks, probably so Val doesn’t have time to question they evidence of tear tracks the Russian has yet to wipe away.

‘I’m fine with whatever you get’ Val responds, and makes his way into the bathroom. It’s weird, he thinks as he steps into the shower, grateful that some hot water was left. When they were on the rink, conversation was easy. Now they are in the hotel, it’s like a precipice, icy silence between them. Maybe Daniil is terrified Valtteri’s going to ask what exactly happened. But Val find’s as he steps out of the cubicle and into the steamy bathroom, he’s not too concerned with what happened. More concerned with the Russian’s mental health. Sure, the kid had taken knocks before. But Valtteri find’s he isn’t sure what will hurt more. Helmut Marko’s wrath or the arduous pain of someone leaving. Maybe they're both the same to Daniil, weathered one storm so big that every wave pales in comparison to the knock he took from the last. Val leaves the protection of the steamy room with just a towel around his waist as armour. Because he forgot clothes so distracted by Daniil’s sallow eyes. 

He finds the Russian is finally living up to stereotypes, dealing with things via a bottle of Vodka. With a trolley tray of food Infront of him.

‘Wasn’t sure what you wanted’

Val sort of mentally say’s fuck it. Pulls a t-shirt and his underwear on and politely requests ‘the Vodka please’.

Daniil turns out to be a very funny drunk, sharp witted and even more sweary than usual. The food is good for hotel fare, and the cards that Daniil pulls out form his bag are abused in silly games. Neither of them acknowledges the way that sometimes both of them will pause, actions slightly hollowed out by the reasons for them being here in a hotel room instead of where they were this time last year, or even perhaps a month ago. Neither of them willing to acknowledge anything but yelling about card movements, because that’s what’s easiest right now.

Val find’s himself start to nod off probably around 11pm, they’ve been sat on the hotel chairs and his back is starting to hurt from the position. Val can sort of hear Daniil saying something to him, through the oncoming Vodka headache and sleep eyes.

‘Valtteri..’ then a word that sounds like ‘Preeyatell’

‘Huh’ is Val’s elegant reply as he opens his eyes, Daniil is a lot closer than before, still that same toothy grin, but now his eyes look slightly happier. Vodka’s a good friend. 

‘Bedtime’

So, they clamber into bed together, both trying to maintain space, which is hard because this is a double double, not a king-sized double. Val is halfway back to sleep when the thought jolts into his brain like an unwelcome invasion. He’s rolled over, facing away from Daniil, who is lying ram rod straight on his back.

It’s the first time he’s shared bed space with someone else since… since everything. And since he’s in that space between sleep and awareness, his brain decides he will mention this fact out loud.

‘It’s the first time I’ve shared a bed with someone else in a while’

Daniil’s laugh behind him is small and bittersweet.

‘Me too’

Maybe that’s why when Val awakes, he find’s himself with Daniil wrapped around him and his arms wrapped around the Russian in return. Daniil’s snoring heavily, which is probably what woke Val up. Daniil doesn’t look different in his sleep, not in the way Valtteri expects. He feels a little creepy for watching his friend, and that’s what he guesses they are now, like this. He wonders how Daniil takes his coffee, if he drinks coffee at all. The Russian shuffles and his morning erection is evident against Val’s leg, he find's he's not to bothered by this. Valtteri knows he hates sleeping on his back, but with Daniil curled around him, he feels well rested. It’s probably just all the exercise from the day before. Wearing him out alongside the alcohol and good company. A concept he’s been depriving himself off for a while.

He cards a hand through Daniil’s soft hair, watches the other man snuffle in his sleep. And pretends for a few minutes, that this is his again. A connection with someone who loves him. Not Daniil per say, but someone who would get it. Understand why he spends so long away from home. Understand that it doesn’t change the love he has for them. Val wants to cry but finds nothing is coming. He’s finally wrung out. He can’t quite reach down to press a kiss on Daniil’s head at this angle. But he find’s he wants too, as a thank you, for this distraction. This easing of things. Daniil would be an easy middle ground, a go between getting over things fully and starting anew. The Russian lets out a loud snore, curves his head further into Valtteri’s chest. Val find’s he doesn’t want to fuck up Daniil, instead he wants to help him heal.

Friendship seems like a good concept, no matter how much Val right now finds himself wanting to keep this Daniil in his arms forever, wake up every morning beside the Russian. Unsure if that’s a desire for just the easy comforting companionship love brings, or actual feelings. Every part of him is willing to stick with it though, and find out through moments in between hockey sticks, vodka bottles and road trips.

Daniil wakes up, Val knows this because the snoring slows down, turns into snuffling before normal breathing kicks in. It comforts him that Daniil doesn’t move away.

‘We should go on a road trip; Russia must have more to offer than this town and whatever Sochi is right’

Daniil laughs and presses his face back into Val.

‘Do you like coffee that isn’t espresso?’

It isn’t an answer, but it at least satiates Valtteri to know that Daniil knows this little quirk of him.

They drink coffee and pour over google maps. Daniil is more open; he looks refreshed in the light of the morning. Movements still awkward in his gangly way, but like he’s growing back into the limbs he forgot he had ownership off. Valtteri knows nothing is fixed, that they will eventually discuss feelings, but instead they are buying extra clothes in a local shop, and parking Daniil’s car in a garage.

They clamber in the G Wagon; Daniil had purchased a map of Russia with a Rally co-pilot joke made at Val’s expense. Daniil sits now in the passenger seat, with the map stretched over his lap and the expensive branded sunglasses perched on his face so out of place with his dad jeans and heavy woollen jumper.

Valtteri starts the engine and reverses out of the car park with a feeling of content slipping into his chest, alongside the hum of the engine and Daniil’s eclectic playlist plugged into the AUX. Funny how an ice hockey request had turned into this.

**Author's Note:**

> i may be no.1 daniil fan but i apparently i write daniil 'achingly' so, this is from val's pov. the russian town is made up, i actually have seen pictures of ufa, as my sisters boyfriend is from there. apologies to any russians from small towns, my knowledge is limited. also the word daniil say's in russian is according to a search just how to say 'buddy' 
> 
> 'two guys chilling on an ice rink two hockey sticks apart cause they might be gay'
> 
> [tumblr](https://tororuhroh.tumblr.com/)


End file.
